


Touch

by SherlockIsBored



Series: Senses [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Admiration, Emotional Roller Coaster, Feelings, Friendship, Friendship/Love, John - Freeform, John sees and observes, M/M, Male Friendship, Revelations, Sherlock - Freeform, Touch, Unresolved Emotional Tension, a love letter of sorts, adoration, close, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockIsBored/pseuds/SherlockIsBored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fourth in the Senses mini-fic series. So far, the one I am happiest with (not that I'm unhappy with the others). A further exploration of John's observations of Sherlock through his five senses. </p><p>Just mini-fics I'm doing as a writing exercise in description to get me back into writing with the hope that my work will be enjoyed by others. </p><p>All comments and constructive criticism is appreciated! I write and share to better the quality of The Work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

You remove yourself from the outside world by restricting your touches –

– Regarding the living, that is.

For the dead, you make no reservations. One of these times, Anderson is going to have a stroke over you touching things at a crime scene, even though he compromises more evidence than you ever will. And as funny as it would be to see the man completely apoplectic, I would rather not have to divide my time between you and providing him aid.

Human contact outside the flat seems a chore to you, which I will always find odd, as you are one of the most tactile people I know. You explore the world through your fingers, sometimes to the exclusion of propriety.

When we first began sharing a flat, I was surprised how differing your public and private personas were. On the street you created a barrier that only the foolhardy would breach, making touching you damn near impossible for the average bloke. Even brushing by you when you are at the height of your deductive mania seems taboo.

Step into the confines of 221B, though, and it all falls away. I lost count of how many times each day you brush past me, touching my shoulder or initiating some other physical contact. It’s fleeting and probably meaningless in your mind, occupied with less trivial things, but it gives me great pause.

It also isn’t lost on me your expensive taste. You appreciate the finer things, like how silk clings, flows and drags over your torso or the difference in comfort (not to mention fit) that a bespoke pair of trousers carries. Every time I feel the tight weave of the blended fabric, I wonder how much you chose it for look and how much for feel. Since you would (and do) look good wearing anything, including a bed sheet, I assume that the way the material slides against your skin is no small amount of your choice.

Even your ridiculous coat holds and reveals its own mysteries. While it is a large and heavy cover-up, it still draws attention. Not everyone walks around in a jacket that’s worth would cover the rent of a decent London flat for a month with cash to spare. The inside is satiny smooth and the outside is the softest wool I have ever touched. You treat it like it’s any other garment, but I know if you were without its heavy, comforting presence, you would be lost… not to mention, I don’t think any other garment could withstand the amount of collar-flipping that poor coat endures.

You pretend that the physical world is beyond your worries, that it is all “transport.” Well, my friend, your tastes belie you. You crave gentle, sensual touch, and because you feel that no one will give it freely, you seek it in the things that surround you (or try and steal it from your – assumed – oblivious flatmate.)

Don’t worry; I won’t give away this secret.


End file.
